


Between Threave And An Understanding

by word_docs_and_willowboughs



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Gen, In which Will is still an idiot, Injury, The Game of Kings, and Lymond is failing to be Not Hurt, and believes Lymond to be the devil incarnate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 14:04:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21277964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_docs_and_willowboughs/pseuds/word_docs_and_willowboughs
Summary: Lymond has escaped Threave after being captured at the convent, and Will Scott has caught up to him to bring him back. Almost.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Between Threave And An Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've ever posted on here and I am terrified despite having posted my writing on tumblr (where I am @stripedroseandsketchpads). This was written some months ago, I believe for @veliseraptor on tumblr)

Lymond had been missing for just over a day when Will Scott found himself in the thick of the woods near Threave. The company had split up searching for the outlaw, and Will had made the deliberate, desperate choice of heading off on his own, hoping to quell the public knowledge of his own failures with his search. For in the day before Lymond’s escape, he’d done insult to his superiors, spent time in the cellar that housed their prisoner himself, and finally been blamed (falsely, he could only hope) for allowing Lymond to get away through sheer negligence. That must all be set right, this couldn’t happen again. That the man must be brought to justice kept Will’s pace quick and his eye tireless in its search. The miracle was in his success. It was around midday, and a storm was gathering overhead, apt for the moment when a flash of something pale caught his eye and he saw a man, moving quickly though stumbling a little, through the trees—white shirt, what looked like golden hair. Will did not take a moment to consider that he would alert Lymond when he urged his horse forward, because quite simply, the man could not outrun him. At the pounding of hoofbeats, the nervous whinnies as the animal felt the storm’s wind and the beginnings of lighting crackling, Lymond turned, looked over his shoulder for a bare second, and ran.

Had Will been on foot, his adversary would surely have escaped, even with the injury Will had dealt him at his capture (his first capture; he’d have him again, surely). But the young man was correct in this most simple of judgements. He caught up swiftly as the wind roared and the sky rumbled low, slowing only a little when he was near enough to see the blood on Lymond’s shirt, on the side where Will rode. He pulled even briefly, and realized with confusion that he didn’t know how to stop him, thinking that if he went in front Lymond would simply dodge away. On impulse, Will reached out, grabbed Lymond under the arm, and with the aid of his momentum, threw him down. He succeeded in sending him crashing to the ground, and heard him cry out, in unison with an almighty clap of thunder. Will meant to wheel his horse around to claim his prisoner, but he’d not considered the animal’s fear of the storm. The chestnut, in protest, neighed wildly and by resisting Will’s direction, threw him, the reins slipping from his hands at the sudden shift in gravity.

Thus, Will landed hard in the dirt a ways from his would-be captive, and could feel hubris catching up as he listened to the sound of retreating hoofbeats, winded and generally aching, though he seemed largely unharmed. There was a brief time before he remembered Lymond, which made him shoot to his feet, sure he’d lost his quarry along with his mount and his sense of direction (a right mess, though it could only be so long before someone found him as they’d not gotten far). Instead Will found that he hadn’t moved, and walked over with more curiosity than trepidation. There was no reason, after all, for counterfeit. Lymond wasn’t stupid; he wouldn’t bother to attack Will when he had the chance to run instead.

He thought at first that Lymond must have struck his head falling, but he found the man conscious, breathing heavily and attempting to turn over on his back. He’d fallen on his bad shoulder—the one, Will realized, which he’d grabbed him by, and the damage was obvious. There was new blood blooming on the white fabric, and Lymond was markedly pale, grimacing as he made to stand. Will grabbed him by the collar, remembering his purpose, and pushed him back to the ground, at which point Lymond actually bothered to look at him, and say with a particular venom,  
“Ah, Brutus, it seems you have failed again in your assassination.” If Will usually missed Lymond’s flourishes to speech, this one was plain, perhaps for his benefit in catching the insult and accusation.  
“You think me the traitor?”  
“I think you are the last of them to fall in line, and at present, the man to bring me back to hang, or leave me here to perish more speedily,” Lymond said, and now Will noticed a waver to his voice, something he would surely never admit to. When he let go of the collar, his hand was covered in blood. Too much, given bandage he’d had before, and it was spreading too quickly. Lymond didn’t try to fight him, which was the most alarming thing, though nor did he cease in his rambling—for that was what it was. Apparently injury impeded even Lymond’s eloquence. “Playing surgeon, are we now? Perhaps you’ve a dirk to speed things along?”

Will was now quite conscious of the fact that he was far from learned in any sort of medicine, and that whatever was happening to Lymond (whatever he had done) was doing so more quickly than he could muster a solution. He’d have to bandage it, but was distracted by the need stop the blood...he placed his hands over the place where it flowed, warm through the fabric of the shirt. When Will pressed down on the wound, Lymond did scream, briefly, and seemed to cut himself off into deep, ragged breaths. Probably, thought Will, to preserve his dignity.  
“For the love of God, Scott, you’ve damned near sunk to murder but I’d not have thought torture was among your interests.” He realized that of course it was pointless, that he was doing everything wrong, but even so…  
“No, I’m not...” This was not at all what was meant to happen, Will thought faintly, and wondered if he’d worsened things, or made them better. If someone found them soon enough, Lymond would be easy to re-capture. If no one did, he might die.  
“Well, are you satisfied? Were you disappointed, perhaps, that I didn’t scream when you stuck the knife in to begin with? You’ve done nothing useful, certainly.”  
“You’ve got to go to trial. I’m only helping for justice’s sake. Helping them. But I’m not hurting you.”  
“I do believe I know better than you, young master, I—” Lymond gasped when Will sat him up halfway tried to take off the shirt, thinking to examine the damage. Surprisingly, Lymond helped to pull it over his head, with a hiss, and put his weight on his left arm to stay upright. He took a breath, recovered himself, and smiled thinly. “I have experience. As I am at your mercy, however, do what you will with your own workings or else leave me to rot or recuperate, as the case may be.” 

The implication of the first part of Lymond’s statement—experience— and wether it was a lie, nearly threw him, but Will brushed it off near instantaneously rather than attempt to understand. Lymond didn’t matter: not his words, not his history, just that his life had to be preserved. Without looking at Lymond’s face, Will removed the old bandage entirely, useless, and tore an uneven strip from the bottom of Lymond’s ruined shirt. These were bad conditions, altogether, but there was nothing to be done. Will found, however, that he could not keep silent either in the presence of his new enemy, lest he be allowed to claim some victory.  
“You know I did the right thing,” said Will, annoyed at how churlish it sounded to his own ears.  
“You killed a very good friend of mine.”  
“I didn’t kill him,” snapped Will, “and you don’t have any very good friends. You’ve no friends at all, just people who take orders from you.” Lymond laughed, rather cruelly for his position, as Will set to winding the fabric under his arm and around to the source of the bleeding. Surely that would help. It had to.   
“I will admit, the list dwindles. Brother, sister, company, lieutenant. All quite, quite down.”

“All of that,” said Will, “is your fault.” Lymond’s expression was an odd mixture of emotions, a flinty amusement.  
“Every last bit? The most minuscule piece, my doing?” Will hesitated, before recalling that there was no trick when he knew the truth.  
“Yes,” he answered firmly, “it is.”  
“May I ask then, what possesses you to kneel before a devil incarnate and bind up his wounds, though no trespass be forgiven?” The ironic mirth was fading from him, as he looked worse off, which, though unsurprising, was some cause for concern.   
“Of course I don’t mean to forgive you.”  
“Rhetorical, Mar—” he hissed through his teeth, and groaned as Will tugged the bandage a little tighter, careful, but with no regret for the pain, judging by his words.  
“What was that?”  
“I don’t want forgiveness.”  
“No, you said... don’t ever call me that again.” Lymond looked upwards, blinking, but his features were strained.  
“You’d prefer traitor, then? Foul wretch, villain, stabber in the dark?” Will felt his jaw twitch slightly, the accusations enough like his father’s before to hit home… as if he was a traitor to everyone in the world at once, though that was quite impossible. Wasn’t it?

“I could see well enough,” Will answered, grim.  
“Aye, for the candle was thine, O bringer of light.” Distracted humor dissolved shortly into something closer to true anger. That it was half-subdued along with Lymond meant little.   
“And you put it out.”  
“Indeed. My motives are plain. Yours are duplicitous, muddy, misinformed, and utterly selfish.” Will’s hands were clumsy with their work, more so when distracted. With care, he corrected, and tried to ignore Lymond’s half-sensible tirade. “If I am the worst of humanity that you can fathom, you’ve not seen much of the world. Not everyone has the privilege of becoming an outlaw for the sport of it, and to spite their parents. And very few are so lucky as to turn traitor without repercussions.” Lymond was speaking oddly now, distant, and it unsettled Will. “Very few,” he said, “I think none. How did you find our cozy little cell?” Will, at the end of his work, found he could no longer stand the barbs, and pulled far tighter than he thought he ought to, hoping to interrupt. It achieved more than the desired effect. True, Lymond cried out, teeth gritted, but his hand slipped from beneath him, and then, quite suddenly, he fell back in a dead faint.

Will sat there, nonplussed, for what was likely far too long before trying stir him, shaking his shoulder, and speaking insults rather than call his name with any tone of concern. Worryingly, it was unsuccessful, but the shoulder was bound, the blood not staining through quite so quickly. He was breathing, too, though a little shallowly. When Will found that he couldn’t rouse him, couldn’t move him, and had nowhere to take him to, he sat down, frowning, with his back against a tree and his eyes resting on Lymond, and waited. For someone to find them, for the sun to set, or the sky to open, or for Lymond to wake up and start distracting him again. Silence but for birdsong and the calming wind, after having heard so much of the man’s voice, was strange. 

As dusk fell, hunger and thirst crept up, and Lymond lay still with Will glancing down occasionally, he was beginning to think it had been too long. Still the breathing, still the heartbeat, but aside from the briefest flutter of an eyelash a good while ago...nothing else. The sky had ceased in its violent discourses by this time, mercifully without having opened with rain, and Will was bored. He looked back at Lymond with some hesitancy, and rose, inspecting the canopy and hoping that someone would notice he’d not returned to Threave, as it was now late enough that they must have called off the hunt. That combined with the exhaustion of that day’s ride and the frayed nerves that came from interacting with Lymond made him whip his head around at the sound of rustling leaves — maybe far-off hoofbeats?— and momentarily abandon his post to several birds take flight from their places, quite far off. That was all it took. He missed movement behind him, and then his back was shoved against the trunk of the nearest tree. Lymond had him by the hair, Will too startled to go for his sword, and too close to make use of it. His onetime superior looked ready to collapse, pale as death, but entirely wakeful, and in the moment Lymond paused with the flicker of a smile across his face, Will realized he’d been feigning for some time.  
“I hope you do not learn,” he said quite sharply, “what it actually looks like when someone’s nearly dead.” With that, he slammed Will’s head back against the trunk, and Will scarcely felt himself fall, the blow leaving nothing but a burst of pain and sudden dark.


End file.
